


Letters From Fielding

by peptobismolbird



Series: The Town of Hope [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Altered Memories, F/F, Psychological Horror, false reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peptobismolbird/pseuds/peptobismolbird
Summary: Hannah takes Diana back to their apartment, and Deputy Hollis goes to investigate the scene of the attack against Diana. Sheriff Kieth finds himself alone, and with the hope of finding some sense in the puzzle laid before him, he delves into record storage. He finds three letters, and the story they tell only adds to the confusion.
Relationships: Diana Harper/Hannah Brooks
Series: The Town of Hope [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841620
Comments: 2





	Letters From Fielding

Diana Harper's eyes are pools of inky blackness, filling not just her iris but the rest of her eye as well. It looks like it's leaking the skin around it, tendrils of darkness slithering through her veins. It's nothing like what I remember, her beautiful brown eyes were like the depths of an autumn forest. I remember how much I loved to look into those eyes, how I could stare for hours and not get bored. We were friends, and I remember shattering that friendship with my greed, even if something about it feels wrong. It causes a pain in my heart, seeing Diana like this, and a void within that lacks any identity. Something is missing from my life, and whatever it is, Diana knows. She said she remembers it all, she said that she loves me. The way it made me feel, to hear those words.. It was so familiar yet so foreign to me, all at the same time. It made me happy, and I know that I need to hear it again. Diana is my dearest friend, and she always has been, but to know that she could be more, just as I dreamt? That the person who stole Diana from me was never real, that the spot by her side belonged to me? It is hope, but I don't know if Diana is in there anymore.

My hand covers my mouth, and I feel tears starting to stream down my cheeks. I approach her slowly, ignoring the warnings from the sheriff and his deputy. My eyes are locked onto Diana, how her body trembles where she sits, and all the injuries that mark her. She's crying, and I know that Diana must still be in there. She has to be, I need her to tell me that it's not my fault, that it wasn't my actions that led to this. I kneel down in front of the bench, and with hesitation I reach my hand towards her cheek. She doesn't react, not until my hand brushes against her skin. It's cold and clammy, wet with tears. She places one of her hands on top of mine, and she stares down at me with darkened eyes. I see a glimmer of life within the murky, tar like depths, though it's hard to tell if it's real or my own wishful thinking. I notice that she's stopped muttering, now biting down on her lower lip.

"Diana..?" I whisper, stifling my tears as I wait for her to say something. For a while, there is only silence, save for the sound of rustling through filing cabinets coming from behind me.

"I.. I am, I am. I'm Diana Harper, I really am, and I got away.. Hannah, I got away. I'm here aren't I? And it's you, you're here.. And we're together," Diana replies, laughter rising up from deep within, cracking between her words. It's a distorted and broken laughter, but underneath it I can feel her relief. Droplets of inky black liquid roll down her cheeks like tears, and I wonder what they are. I wonder what happened to my Diana, and who did it to her. Anger twists and burns in my stomach as my mind races through scenario after scenario, and how I wasn't there for her. Guilt begins to fuse with my rage, warping it into a bitter feeling within me that is all consuming. I let out a sigh, and I rise to my feet; my hand doesn't leave Diana's cheek as I do so.

"That's right, Diana. You're safe, I promise," I whisper. I wrap my free arm around her shoulder and pull her into my chest. Diana lets her feet fall to the ground, and leans herself into me, her arms wrapping around my waist. I slide my hand into her messy, tangled hair and hold her close. Something about having her in my arms feels so right, so natural, like that's where she belongs. 

"Ms. Brooks, I really don't think you should be that close to it. That thing ain't natural, there's no way it's Diana," Comes the voice of Sheriff Keith, and I feel something inside of me snap. The unmatchable guilt, and the rage towards an unknown force both snap together; just seconds prior those emotions had nowhere to go, but now there was an outlet.

“That thing?! How dare you, sheriff?! Diana isn’t a thing, she’s.. She’s my friend! I’ve spent my whole life by her side, I know that it’s her. I don’t know what happened, but it’s her, I know it is!” I yell, only turning my head to glare daggers at the sheriff. I don’t let go of Diana, and I feel her shaking in my arms. I speak again, a more level tone of voice, “She’s sick, hurt, terrified, and she hasn’t slept in days. Now why don’t you do your job while I take care of my friend, huh?”

“I.. Yes Ma’am,” Is all the sheriff can manage to say. I’m glad that he and his deputy have shut up, prying into things like Diana wasn’t there, like she wasn’t human.

"Good. I'm taking her home, so she can get cleaned up. I'm not going to leave her to stew in filth like some kind of animal, she could get sick," I huff. I finally pull away from Diana, my hands resting on her shoulders. She looks up at me with that inky, viscous liquid staining her cheeks. She looks like she's been through hell and back, barely clinging on to life, all so she could see me again; I don't know how I feel about it, but I know that I'm happy to have her back.

"Yes, of course, but.. Given what's happened to Ms. Harper, I don't think it's wise for her to stay home, or for you to go alone. Whatever did this to her, it might still be out there. I think that I should come with, just to make sure nothing happens, and we can set her up with a proper bed at the station so she isn't in any danger. She was attacked in her home before, right? I understand you want to keep Ms. Harper safe, so please let us try to help. Whatever happened, is happening in our town.. It's obvious we haven't been doing our job. I'd like to remedy that, if at all possible," Deputy Hollis explains. I reluctantly shrug my shoulders.

"Fine, come along if you want. Maybe you can figure out whatever attacked her while you're there," I reply. I finally pull away from Diana, my hand cupping her cheek. She looks up at me, and I offer her a weak smile, "Let's get going, sweetheart. We need to get you cleaned up." 

"Yes, I.. I want to go back to our home.. You still have the key, don't you? I.. I'm sure I gave you a key, we lived together.." Diana murmurs. I help her to her feet, and she stumbles into my arms. I had always been a bit shorter than her, but in this moment my Diana seems so much smaller than me. She latches on to my arm, burying her face against me. I can only imagine how much she's hurting, how much she's been through, and I've only seen the tip of the iceberg. I wonder how much of the past we shared was changed, how many memories were taken from me and how many were so much more than I can remember them as. Did we really live together? Had I ever kissed her? I know how much I want to, how much I've always wanted to, and I can't help but question if I already have..

I reach down to the ring of keys at my side, and examine it closer. The key to my car, to my grandmother's house, to the shop, and one more key I don't remember the purpose of. I decide that it must be the key to Diana's apartment, although I can't remember ever getting it. Were the things I heard in the recording true, did the apartment used to belong to the both of us? How close were we really? I rack my brain for the day Diana gave me her key, but I come up short. There was nothing, and yet the key hung from the ring just as the rest of them. My head aches as I try to remember, remember something that feels locked away somewhere so far out of reach I may never find it, but I have to know the truth. I click the ring of keys back onto my belt, and look down to Diana.

“I’ve got it. Let’s get going.”

\-- Sheriff Kieth -- 

I find myself alone in the station, standing in the middle of the record storage room. There are several rows of steel shelves, each shelf lined with cardboard boxes. Each box is labeled with a name, a name of which I assume belongs to the individual the case concerns. A box of records such as case files, mostly, and the evidence to go with them. I haven’t been in record storage in a long while, as there’s hardly ever a need to. My expectation was that it would be empty, after all, I can’t remember the last time we ever opened that door. The thick and fine layer of dust covering every inch of every surface says that it has been an impossibly long time, yet far longer than makes any sense to me. I’m sure that I had been in there, once or twice, especially when spring cleaning rolled around, yet all evidence before me points to the contrary.

My head aches as I look around the room, squinting as I take in what little light comes from the dingy bulb hanging down from the ceiling. I see far more boxes than I would have ever expected, every shelf full with hardly any room for more. Where did they come from, I wonder, for I can’t remember a time where I had to put something in here. My eyes scan around, looking for anything that might be familiar, and my heart drops when my gaze lands upon a single name on a box in the far left corner of the room. I approach it, dropping onto a knee as I wipe away the dust coating the label, hoping I might have made a mistake. There was no mistake, and I can say for sure that the name is one I know. I just don’t know who it belongs to.

Morgan Fielding

I pull the box free from the shelf, and cautiously remove the lid. Inside I find an identification sheet, listing out her name, address, and description. A picture is clipped to it, and all I can do is frown. The picture shows a tall woman with long, curly brown hair and emerald green eyes. Her cheeks are heavily scarred, almost claw marks raking down her face. Underneath her eyes are heavy bags, and it’s easy to tell that she hadn’t slept in days before the picture was taken. With every moment I look at her picture, my headache only gets worse, a violent thrumming pulse of dull pain encircling my head. I begin to read the information on her case, and yet a part of me knows exactly what happened.

Morgan Fielding disappeared nearly fifteen years ago, and all evidence suggests that she was murdered. The disarray of her antiques shop, the broken locks and smashed windows. The single teacup resting on its side on her kitchen table, only a few drops of liquid left inside. It was viscous, purple, and there is no identification on anything that was in it. Not even what kind of tea it was. What catches my eye, however, are the letters mentioned within. Letters that were sent to Morgan’s mother, within the three years prior to her disappearance. I flip through, and sure enough, the letters are there. I fold them open, and I begin to read.

"To my dear mother,

I write this letter to you because I know that I don't have long to live. I don't know how I know, or what it will be that sings me to my grave, but I know it is coming. I cannot escape the mounting dread every time I leave that accursed shop, the feeling of a line drawn tighter across my neck as my steps carry me across the threshold, and yet I cannot stop myself from going inside. I don't know how it came to this, and even as I recount these events in my mind I still don't understand. I will tell you what I can recall, to the best of my ability, in hopes that perhaps you will find reason in my words.

The building, for the longest time, was rundown and empty. Collecting nothing but dust and spiders, just sitting there. Someone must have owned it, because it wasn't ever touched. Never sold, and the city never went in to clean it up. I think the world forgot about it. Not that there was much to remember to begin with, because whatever was there left nothing behind when it shut down. 

It's not abandoned anymore, I can be sure of that much. I didn't notice it had ever been renovated, why would I? I live on the opposite side of town and have little in the way of a life outside work. I didn't think about that old place until the day I found a flyer on my doorstep. It was for the antiques shop that opened up in the building, though I couldn't tell you when it opened. The flyer was a gaudy thing, covered in bright colors with drawings I honestly couldn't describe. I had no idea what they were, and they looked like they had been drawn in crayon by a five year old. The name of the shop was written in similar fashion. Sloppy handwriting in crayon spelling out "Red Tree Antiques," on the top of the page.

Needless to say, I had no desire to go to that place. I held no interest in antiquities, after all, and the flyer certainly wasn't convincing me to pick one up. I'm sure that I threw it away, but the rest of the night was such a mechanical blur I couldn't say. I just went through the motions of the night and passed out. 

My dreams that night were strange, to say the least. I was in an unfamiliar place, or at least, it felt unfamiliar. I was standing outside the building where I lived but something wasn't right. Colors stained the reality outside the objects that contained them, the outlines twisted in ways I knew that they shouldn't. I recognized the road stretched out before me, but it blurred and danced the longer I looked at it. I could pinpoint holes in the road that I thought at first were potholes, but I realized quickly that those holes seemed to be in reality itself. 

I was scared, I know that I was, and when my legs carried me forward I told myself it wasn't me, that I didn't want to move. Yet I felt myself make the decision to take each step, every time I thought I wanted to stop, to turn around, I stepped forward anyway. I didn't want to, but every fibre of my being told me that I had to. I couldn't fathom what would happen if I didn't. This dilemma had my mind so wrapped up, I didn't know where I was going. I could no longer pay attention to anything but the slow pace of my own footsteps, the twisted world fading away.

The next thing I truly remember was opening my eyes, standing in front of that shop. Red Tree Antiques. I don't know what time it was, I don't even think I knew then. Had I gone to work, had the day passed in such a blur of routine that it mixed with the day before? Or had I walked here in my sleep? How long had I been standing there? I can't remember. All I know is that it was late, and the shop was open. It was pretty unremarkable, a painted sign hanging on the door with the name, and another sign on the window. I don't remember what was on it. I think it must have been important.

I don't know why I went inside. I felt that same pull on my body, tugging my legs forward with every step. Telling myself I wanted to turn and leave, because despite how ordinary it was going through that door sent shivers through my spine. It sent my heart racing in a panic I had never felt before, and despite it all I watched myself reach for the handle of the door. My body burned with a need and desire so fierce for whatever laid beyond that threshold that my entire body was trembling. I had to go in, I felt like I would die if I didn't. 

When I pulled the door open, I saw a bell chime and heard nothing. I saw metal clang against metal right next to the door, and there was no sound. I was inside before I knew it, the door shutting silently behind me. That's when I felt it first, that inescapable dread looming over me with every waking moment. Every sleeping moment, too. 

The shelves were neatly organized, well dusted, and the array of artifacts kept in pristine condition. Pottery, china, books and miscellaneous items filled the shelves to either side of me, but that wasn't what had caught my eye. In the center of the shop were several rows of glass display cases. All of them empty, but boasting plaques as if to describe what was lurking within. By the time my fingertips traced the words on one of the plaques, I still hadn't realized I moved deeper into the shop. I finally saw the source of my dread. Not the item that was meant to go there, not where it came from. The name of the person who brought it to the shop.

I checked the next plaque. It was the same thing. Another object I couldn't name, another place I had never heard of, and a name I had never been more terrified of seeing. In disbelief, I checked the next, and the next until I was sure I had looked at every single case. They all wore the same stamp with pride. Acquired and certified by Morgan Fielding.

Morgan Fielding.

Maybe there was someone else with that name, I had told myself. Just a coincidence. I knew that I was wrong, even then. I think I could have left at that point, could have run right out the door to the shop and never returned. I should have, I wish so badly that I did, but I didn't. Of course I didn't, I needed to know. My mind was in such a haze and all I wanted was answers. I never got them, only more questions.

A voice broke through my rising panic, calm and smooth but razor sharp: "The flyers could use a bit of work but that wasn't really your job, so I can't be too upset."

That's the first time I remember hearing his voice, but it was too familiar to have been the first time. It gave me a chilling sense of deja vu, but what was even worse were the implications of his words. When? Why? I must have been making a face as I wracked my mind for answers, because he laughed. It turned my gut, and I truly wanted to hurl.

"Don't think too hard about it," He told me. I realized the world was beginning to look strange again, as it did some moments earlier, before I opened my eyes. I think. Blurry and fuzzy, colors fading into one another and swaying as my head swam. Don't think about it, he said, but how could I not. I clenched my eyes shut, hoping that maybe it would disappear. I felt my legs move on their own, a hand on the side of my arm.

Shutting my eyes, though, only made it worse. The dizziness came in tidal waves, nearly knocking me to the ground in a daze more than once as I stumbled towards.. Something. I didn't know what, or maybe I did. I heard him speaking, but my head was underwater. It was nothing but incomprehensible noise. I don't know how long this lasted, time blurring together into an awful slush of confusion and terror.

When I opened my eyes this time, I was home, laying on my sofa. My head pounded, and I was drenched in a thick layer of sweat. I tried to write it off as a bad dream, and I was almost able to do just that. Or maybe I'm just tricking myself into thinking I could have escaped this, but it doesn't matter now. I got through my work day pretty easy, a simple day at the office. Safe and sound, until I left. Until I had to go home.

I stepped outside the office and into that awful place that couldn't have existed. With lines twisting into dimensions and angles that were impossible to comprehend, objects spewing color like a punctured artery, bleeding through the fabric of reality itself. The canvas wasn't solid, either, it rippled as if it were water. When I moved, my body felt stuck as if the air itself were thick molasses I couldn't feel. My feet carried me there again, to that shop. To that cursed place.

He was there, and he talked to me. For hours, he rambled on about something and I truly couldn't tell you what about. I wasn't listening, only trying to find the eyes I knew were watching amongst the warped reality around me. I think I responded, but nothing more than idle nods to pretend I was paying attention. I tried to tell myself I would wake up soon, that I passed out at my lunch. I didn't. When the talk was done, I went home in a slow walk as the world spun. 

I collapsed on my floor, and I laid there. I don't know how long, it could have been a few days or no more than an hour. I just laid there, my head pounding in an intense pain behind my eyes, my entire body made of lead. I was in and out of consciousness, but I didn't dream. Not this time.

When I was able to get up, I tried to get myself together. A cup of coffee, a lot of water, and something to eat. I showered, and tried to make myself presentable. I didn't want to go to that shop again, not a third time. I actually managed to get through a few days, as hard as they were while forcing myself to stay awake, but in the end it was for nothing. I couldn't avoid it. I fell asleep, and I dreamt. 

I dreamt of the city, walking through it in its impossible state of being, fear ingrained into my very being. Then I was there, at the shop. It seemed I didn't have a choice, some unseen thread pulling me along through something truly awful. The same thing happened as the time before, and it kept happening. I tried to lead my life, but the nightmare followed me everywhere. It didn't matter when, or where, or even if I was awake or not. I stopped being able to tell what was a dream and what wasn't. Sometimes the plainest things felt so distant from reality I couldn't tell if I was genuinely there. Sometimes I would dream, and I would dream of a normal day. I wanted so desperately to believe it was real.

I don't know when I stopped going to work, or when the nightmare tugged me further and further from home. In a twisted world I went places so far from recognizable I knew they could not be real, and in the reality I thought was the waking world I saw proof that I had traveled. The display cases in the shop were filling up. I knew that I had gotten them, but everything was so fuzzy. The horror of my nightmares stood firm outside of my dreams, but I was sure that I had never left my apartment. I was sure I was sick, and that I was dreaming every time I got on a boat or a plane or in a car and went places that shouldn't be real. I don't know what's real anymore. Maybe nothing is.

There were times when I would just sit in the shop, doing nothing but stare. I’d find myself in a corner beside the shelves, pulling my knees close to my chest. I watched as time passed in a blur, as the world around me faded in and out of dizzying insanity. I think I watched someone die in that shop. It’s hard to be sure. I think someone wanted to buy something of ours, that man showing off an ornate mask. He said that I was the one to find it. I’m sure I had never seen that damned thing until that moment, but I’m likely wrong.

They were discussing prices for it, I think. I stopped paying attention as the world swirled and faces screamed in the shadows. I might have been crying, but there was no way for me to tell. Their voices got louder and louder, until I couldn’t tell them apart from the screams in the darkness. I watched as one of them grabbed that foul man by the back of the head and smashed his face into the countertop. The noise it made was sickening and unreal, the shattering of bone mixing with a shrill ringing that echoed through my mind. They dragged him away. I never saw the mask again.

The cases are full now, and so is the backroom. I haven't gone anywhere in a while, and I haven't seen that man, either. I think it’s likely for him to be dead, though I can’t be sure if he ever existed. I don't know, or care for that matter. The shop is mine now, or I think it is, at least. Red Tree Antiques. My name is on the door, though I can't be sure if it's my name. I haven’t heard anyone say my name in so long.

None of this has ended, but I think it will soon. I feel ill both in dream and reality, whichever happens to be which. Maybe I'm dreaming now, and this letter will never find you. How cruel that would be, and how likely. My mind has only gotten crueler with each passing day, though I can't tell you how many days have passed. It may have been a month, or a year or even three. I don't know. I was supposed to turn twenty soon, but I'm sure that date has long since passed. I will not even know how many chapters my story held before my story is over. I am so very ill, reality and dream blurred so tightly together that I don't think I'll notice when my final moments approach. I'm not entirely sure that's a bad thing.

I have seen Alex around recently, one of my closest friends from what feels like an eternity ago. I know that this must be a dream, because her path pulled her away from the town where my path ends. Because reality, I have learned, would not be as kind as to deliver me such a gift. It is a horrible, horrible dream. A trick to wring out the last of my misery. I see her in my dreams and I know the dread that has been weighing on my entire being for so long will soon reach its conclusion. It hurts more than anything else to see her. I think maybe I miss her, as angry as she used to make me. I think that I'd like to have truly seen her one last time.

I don't know what's happened to me, and I am sorry that it's going to be this way."

“To my dear mother,

It’s strange to know that today is my birthday, to know that I am turning twenty three years old. It feels like today would be the day I turn twenty, instead. Three years of my life have passed me by and no matter how long I spend with the therapist or psychiatrist, going through all sorts of exercises and medications to help job those memories, there’s simply nothing there. Aside from the nightmares, that is, that all blur together into one awful conglomeration of time. A nightmare that in it’s duration I aged three years. I wish I could say those years did not count, that I could pretend nothing at all happened, but bottling it up is unhealthy; At least, that is what they are telling me.

So instead, we spend an hour each day sifting through my nightmares. I have them every night, every time I close my eyes for more than a few minutes. Trauma has a way of sticking around, even when the conscious has forgotten it will lurk underneath to surface in dream. My therapist tells me that sifting through my nightmares will help me understand what happened, help me separate reality from hallucination. It is not easy, there are days that we make no progress at all, and those days come more often than those where we actually move forward.

The medication is helping, though, and I don’t feel quite as physically miserable as I once did. No more nausea, headaches, vertigo, or pain that I could not explain. I am less afraid than I was at the start of my treatment. I worry less about lingering eyes, though I still panic at the sight of certain drawings, certain sounds.The ringing bell of a shop door is the worst. I hate the way it makes my skin crawl, how it sends me back to all my nightmares there in the waking world. Those things, I suppose, are harder to conquer than physical symptoms.

What is most difficult to conquer for me cannot even be described as a fear. It does not make me anxious, it does not send me into a panic. It is a simple, lingering feeling every time I look at anything or anyone. If I gaze too long or think too much, I feel the world around me change. It feels less and less real, like I am trapped in a dream outside of my control. I feel myself making decisions without deciding, moving without moving, following along a current which the flow of is incomprehensible. It is the same feeling I had within my nightmares, and I begin to wonder if I am dreaming in that very moment.

That is where a majority of our work is done, pulling myself back to reality. Learning how to ground myself, grab ahold of something and anchor in what I know to be the real world. An anchor to stop me from being swept away by the storm. I wish I could find one. They tell me it makes it easier to go through the motions of life, that it would keep me from wandering off or doing things that I may regret. I’ve been told that in those moments where I found myself swept away, I dig my nails into my cheek. I don’t even know why. My nurses said that they once found me in a corner, sobbing with bloody nails. After that, they took precautions to make sure my nails are kept as short as possible, while there is still the smallest chance I will lose ahold of myself. Part of me wishes I could be angry for all the shackles on my freedom, but.. I can’t be. I’m a danger to myself and I know that. I don’t know why, I don’t remember it happening, but the scars remain to say that it is true.

They’re telling me I’m getting better, but it’s something I have to remind myself of everytime I look in the mirror because to be truthful, I don’t like what I see. I don’t look like I’m getting better, I look almost horrible as I feel. I can’t hold myself up anymore, I have to force myself not to slouch down. My hair is a nightmare, I haven’t brushed it in so long and giving it the treatment it needs has been so far out of the question for so long I can’t be bothered to try to start it up again. My cheeks are scarred, as mentioned before, and it’s a painful reminder of my own lack of control. I try to keep myself clean, but somehow, I always seem to smell like sweat and depression. Whatever depression smells like. What’s the most awful, I think, is my eyes. There are always giant puffy bags underneath my eyes, and more wrinkles than I can be bothered to count, like I’m some sort of collector of them. It’s more than that, though. They’re so empty now, I look at myself in the mirror and my eyes are so hollow, so lifeless. I remember when I was beautiful, when I was full of vibrant energy, but more so I remember when I was plain. I wish I could just be plain again, someone that passes by everyone's radar, someone nobody looks at. I hate it when I feel people looking at me.

I’m working on that, too. It’s so fundamentally unlike who I used to be to want to hide, to want to blend into the crowd and go unnoticed. Aside from my hair, I’ve always been rather plain looking. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it just wasn’t right for me. When I first looked in the mirror and really noticed that fact, you remember exactly why I had to do something about it. Why the thought of not standing out made me so deeply upset. A young girl’s very first love, blossoming in a way she never expected it to. My best friend Alex was always a flirt, the moment she figured out what she wanted she chased it everywhere she could. I saw her chase after so many girls, but not once did she look my way. It broke my poor heart, and I think I cried about it for a few days before it turned into a determination to make her notice me. I spent my entire break delving into cosmetics, along with fashion, and before I knew it, I had forgotten why I started entirely. It was so much fun, and it felt like I had discovered real magic. It wasn’t about covering up or hiding or changing who I was. It was about showing myself everything that I could be, and it was about fun. I wanted everyone to see how amazing I could be.

If I’m going to move forward, if I’m ever going to be anything like I was before this happened to me, I’ll need some kind of motivation. A reason to get started again, to crave being seen, but most certainly not seen because of my state of trauma. I just don’t have anything that could be that motivation for me, not anymore. I’m not sure I could ever face any of my old friends ever again. It’s horrifying, because they’re going to look at me and they’re going to know. No matter how hard I try, they’re going to look into my eyes and they’re going to know that there isn’t anything inside. They’re going to know exactly what I already know, and it’s that there isn’t any going back, that I’m never going to be the same girl I used to be. That I’m going to stay broken.

It hurts. It hurts to know that I’ll never be the same, and that chances are my eyes are always going to be empty. That isn’t the worst of it, though. Among all of my nightmares of the past three years, there is one that cuts me deeper than anything else could, one that leaves behind a poison to fester and spread through my entire body until I can’t bring myself to stand. They tell me that it isn’t a nightmare, but I know better, I know that it’s worse. It’s more horrible and cruel than anything I see in my nightmare. It lingers for far, far longer, too. It’s what waits for me in my sleep at the end of my worst days.

Despite all of it, though, I’m still kicking. I’m twenty three years old, and I’ve survived. I made it through the worst of it, right? I’m out of the fire, and now all that’s left is for the burns to heal. Once the burns heal, then maybe.. Maybe I can figure out how to get my life back. I can’t find any hope for that in my heart, but not too long ago I was sure that I was going to die. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to say there was hope, just as I can say that I survived.”

"To my dear mother,

I'm sure that you're aware I've been released from the facility that I've called home for the past year, and I know that is cause for celebration. My release was certainly a long awaited day by both myself and the staff of the facility. I think they were tired of seeing my face, marred by pitiful blotches of black and purple under my eyes. Even with my nails cut short, I managed to collect more than my fair share of scars on my cheeks. I wasn't easy to work with, I can see that now. It took so long just to get me into a space where we could begin working on improvement.

I got there, of course. Improvement enough to declare I wasn't a danger to myself or others, enough to say I could function on my own. Truth be told, I didn't want to leave. I knew how people were going to look at me. No one I knew would say anything, of course, but they would give me a forced smile and a look of pity as they asked if I was okay. I was tired of that look on people's face, I had seen so much of it during my stay and I knew it would hurt me in a way I couldn't fathom to see it on the face of someone I cared about. I thought people knew. Turns out they didn't. I could go back to the broken remains of my life and start piecing it back together.

That's what I've been doing, mom, and I know my release is a wonderful milestone to have reached but I'm not ready to celebrate yet. I can barely maintain a routine of any kind, the hours of my shop changing at the drop of a hat. Sometimes I cannot possibly dredge myself out of bed from exhaustion, other times it's because of the nightmares. I still dream of that horrible world of unreality and the fear that came with it, but I can at least keep it separated from the waking world. If I know I won't be unable to keep up the illusion that nothing is wrong, I'll hide away. I've been so careful in ensuring that nobody sees the cracks under the surface, and yet..

People always seem to know when someone desperate is hiding something, especially their emotions. I try to be the same cheerful girl that I was, I give them my perfect smiles and chipper upbeat attitude but they know it isn't real. The second they look into my eyes, I'm certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that they know. I can cover up so much but every time I look in the mirror my eyes are just so empty. The moment they notice, I swear to you that their entire demeanor changes. They think that maybe I don't notice, but I do. How twitchy and unsettled they get, unsure of what to say or do. I hate it. It makes me want to curl away and stop trying because I'll never be the same person I was before. Showing the world whatever I've become is hardly a good option, either. I'd lose the few friends I have if they saw.

It's not that I can't manage, of course, I've been handling relatively well. There are few people who come close to eye level with me, so avoiding eye contact isn't exactly hard to do. I know that these thoughts I have about people knowing something is wrong, or feeling that they're looking at my weird, is all completely ridiculous. Intense anxiety that is the product of a traumatized mind. I can go through the motions as if things are okay, and pretend to connect with the world even if I can't feel it. My therapist always told me that if I faked it, I could eventually trick my mind into thinking it was reality. I don't doubt him, I learned first hand how fickle one's perspective of reality is, but it is a slow process.

I've been reconnecting with some of my old friends, as well. I ended up stumbling into one of the bars that Felicity worked at, more than a little tipsy. I know I shouldn't be drinking, and I promise it isn't a regular thing. Just one or two when I go to talk to Felicity while she's at work. I was glad to see her, I always am, but I honestly couldn't tell you how she felt about seeing me. I don't think she was happy, not really. I always thought we had gotten along but whenever she looks at me my stomach twists with a fear that all she really wants is for me to go away. I couldn't tell you if that fear had any basis in reality or if it was truly irrational, as so many of my fears often are.

I've run into Harriett as well, but truth be told I can’t remember as much about her as I wish I did. She runs a bookshop now, I think, but I don’t really know. We’ve talked, of course, and it still feels like it used to. I can go through the motions of conversation, and yet so much is missing that once was there. I’ve lost a lot of myself, things I can’t remember. Things I wish I could remember. The past feels far away now, a distant reality so out of my reach it's barely more than a dream. Beside that, I saw Alex again, for real this time. She hasn't changed, and I'm glad to see that for once. To think there was a time when all I wished was that she would get her act together, and now seeing her chasing skirts is somewhat of a relief. Not that I am any less frustrated by it, of course. So much has changed, most of it for the worse in my case, but there are still constants I can cling on to.

I am glad that Alex is one of the constants. I dreamt of her a lot while I was in the facility, and even before that while I was ill. Even with all of those dreams, I didn't really understand the extent to which I missed her until I saw her again. It felt like a weight I had been carrying for so long was pulled off my heart, and I didn't even know it was there. I was well and truly in the same room with her, and it still felt like a dream. We didn't talk, I don't even think she noticed me, but that moment was.. Bliss. It was the only good dream I've had in so damn long, except it wasn't a dream. There was always something about her that felt reassuring to me, though I couldn't possibly tell you what it is. If there is anyone I'll show how much I've changed to, it'll be her.

Alex.. Even her name feels like a dream as it passes my lips. I'm scared of going to see her again, though. Whenever I get out of the shop, I can't escape that feeling that not only am I being watched, but whoever is watching knows. That they know my secrets. It's always followed by that overwhelming dread, the unseen thread pulling tight around my neck and I can't get away from it. I know that it's just paranoia, that no one is actually watching, but sometimes it's too much.

Still, to see Alex I think I'll be able to push myself. I'm sure I can conquer that fear if it means I'll be able to see her, but I just need to prepare myself. On a good day, I'll go to her, but for now I suppose I'll just pine."

I set the letters back into the box, and I sit back onto the cold floor of record storage. Something or someone killed Morgan Fielding, and all I can think is that whatever did it wasn't natural. I stare into the box, and I know that I should remember something like this happening. Hope is a small town, and word of mouth gets every story across the lot far better than any news station. Something like this, surely people would have talked about it, surely someone would remember.. The worst feeling of all is the one I can't shake, no matter how much I wish I could be rid of it. I knew Morgan Fielding, just as I knew her friends.


End file.
